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The Old Cider Mill 

and 
Other Gems 

Poems of Yesterday 



Selected and Arranged 

by 
Vida Litchfield 



Published by 

Charles C. Thompson Co. 

Chicago 






Copyright 1913 

BY 

CHARLES C. THOMPSON CO. 



©CL A'? 5 0610 



♦ ♦ ♦ 



♦!♦ •!♦ ♦!♦ 



Heart Throb Series 



of 



Gift Booklets 

Selected and Arranged 
by 

Vida Lite hf ield 



I A Pair of Red Lips 

and Other Poems 

(For Maids and Men) 

II The Old Cider Mill 

and Other Gems 

(Poems of Yesterday) 



*2« *^« (^ •ji »*« »*« •*« »*« ♦*« »*« iji 



Memory is the only paradise out 
of which we cannot be driven 

^''^y- -Richter 



Ah! happy years! once more who 

would not be a boy? ^ 

*^ — Byron 



Poems of Yesterday [7] 



THE OLD CIDER MILL 

If I could be a boy again 
For fifteen minutes, or even ten, 
I'd make a bee-line for that old mill, 
Hidden by tangled vines down by the rill ; 
Where the apples were piled in heaps all 'round, 
Red, streaked and yellow all over the ground; 
And the old sleepy horse goes round and round 
And turns the wheels while the apples are ground. 

Straight for that cider mill I'd start, 

With light bare feet and lighter heart, 

A smiling face, a big straw hat. 

Hum-made breeches and all o' that. 

And when I got there I would just take a peep. 

To see if old cider mill John was asleep, 

And if he was I'd go snooking round 

'Till a great big round rye straw I'd found ; 

I'd straddle a barrel and quick begin 

To fill with cider right up to my chin. 

As old as I am, I can shut my eyes 

And see the yellow jackets, bees and flies 

A-swarming 'round the juicy cheese 

And bung-holes; drinking as much as they please. 

I can see the clear sweet cider flow 

From the press above to the tub below, 

And a'steaming up into my old nose 

Comes the smell that only a eider mill knows. 

You may talk about your fine old Crow, 
Your champagne, sherry, and so and so. 
But of all the drinks of press or still, 
Give me the juice of that old cider mill. 
A small boy's energy and suction power 
For just ten minutes or quarter of an hour. 
And the happiest boy you ever saw 
You'd find at the end of that rye straw, 
And I'll forego forevermore 
All liquors known on this earthly shore. 

— Anonymous 



[8] Poems of Yesterday 

BOYHOOD 

Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days! 
The minutes parting one by one like rays 

That fade upon a summer's eve; 
But oh, what charm or magic numbers 
Can give me back the gentle slumbers 

Those weary, happy days did leave? 
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, 

And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; 

Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this; 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

— Washington Allston 



UNSATISFIED 

An old farmhouse, with meadows wide, 
And sweet with clover on either side; 
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
The door, with woodbine wreathed about. 
And wishes this one thought all the day 
"Oh, if I could but fly away 
From this dull spot, the world to see. 
How happy, O how happy. 
How happy I would be." 

Amid the city's constant din 
A man who 'round the world has been; 
Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng, 
Is thinking, thinking all day long: 
"Oh, could I only tread once more 
The field-path to the farmhouse door, 
The old, green meadows could I see. 
How happy, how happy, 
How happy I would be." 



Poems of Yesterday [9] 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late with my bosom cronies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women; 
Closed are her doors on me now, I must not see her. 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling? 
So we might talk of the old familiar faces. 

How some they have died, and some they have left me. 
And some are taken from me; all are departed, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

— Charles Lamb. 

AFTERWHILE 

Afterwhile we have in view 
The old home to journey to; 
Where the Mother is, and where 
Her sweet welcome waits us there; 
How we'll click the latch that locks 
In the pinks and hollyhocks. 
And leap up the path once more 
WTiere she waits us at the door; 
How we'll greet the dear old smile 
And the warm tears, afterwhile. 

— James Whitcomb Rilet 




[10] Poeim of Yesterday 



BOCK ME TX? SLEEP 

Ba^^ward. torn backward. O Time in your flight, 
a diild again, just for tonight ! 
uk from the eeholess shore. 
Take bk again to your heart, as of yore : 

from my forehead the furrows of care, 
the few silrer threads out of my hair; 
Over my shnnbcTB yoar loring watch keep : 
Bock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 

Bad:ward. flow iMidrward, O tide of the years! 

I am so weary of toil and of tears. 

Toil withoat recompense, tears all in Tain ; 

Take them, and give me my childhood again. 

I hare grown weary of dust and decay. 

Weary of fltngiiy my soul-wealth away. 

Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 

Bock me to sieep, motiha-, rock me to sleep! 

Tired of the hoDow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O motho-, my heart calls for yon! 
llany a mu—m the grass has grown green, 
Blosoaied and laded, oar faces between, 
Yet wi& nfrffg yparaing and passionate pain, 
liong I tonight for thy {ureaenee again. 
Gonw from the sflfnee, so hn^ and so deep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
Xo lore like motho'-love ever has ahoiie: 
Xo other wnship abides and endiires. 
Faithful, nnnplflflh, and patiesit, like yours; 
Saae bat a motiier ean charm away pain 
Fran the aide sool and the world-weary brain ; 
SImriiCT's soft caln^ o'er my heaTy lids creep ; 
P-:-:k TTir to =-eep, mother, rode me to sleep! 

C.nr '.-• - :r brown hair, joat lighted with gold, 

7 - =Hno1ders, again as of old. 

1 ^ forehead tonight.. 

. - es away from the light; 



Poems of Yesttrdaij [11] 

For with its siiTiny-edged shadows once more 

Haplv will throng the sweet visions of vore; 
Lo^inglv. softlv, its bright billows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep I 

Mother, dear mother I the years have been long 
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song; 
Sing them again, — ^to my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream : 
Clasp to your arms in a loving embrace, 
With your soft, light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep: 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! 

— Mbs. Elizabeth Akees 

IT NEVER COMES AGATS 

There are gains for all our losses. 

There are balms for all our pain; 
But when youth, the dream, departs. 
It takes something from our hearts. 
And it neF^ comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better. 
Under manhood's sterner reign: 

Still we feel that s<3mething sweet 

Followed youth, with flying feet. 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain ; 
We behold it everywhere, 
On the earth, and in the air. 

But it never comes again. 

— RiCHABD HeIVBT StODDASD 

It is folly to pretend that one wholly recovers from a 
disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar. 
There are faces I can never look upon without emotion ; 
there are names I can never hear spoken without almost 
starting. — Lo:^GrELiiDw. 



[12] Poems of Yesterday 

THE DISAPPOIXTED 

There are songs enough for the hero, 

\Mio dwells on the heights of fame; 
I sing for the disappointed, 

For those who missed their aim. 
I sing with a tearful cadence 

For one who stands in the dark. 
And knows that his last, best arrow 

Has bounded back from the mark. 
I sing for the breathless runner, 

The eager, anxious soul, 
Who falls with his strength exhausted 

Almost in sight of the goal ; 
For the hearts that break in silence 

With a sorrow all unknown ; 
For those who need companions, 

Yet walk their ways alone. 
There are songs enough for the lovers 

Who share love's tender pain; 
I sing for* the one whose passion 

Is given and in vain. 
For those whose spirit comrades 

Have missed them on the way, 
I sing with a heart o'erflowing 

Tliis minor strain today. 
And I know the solar system 

Must somewhere keep in space 
A prize for that spent runner 

Who barely lost the race. 
For the Plan would be imperfect 

Unless it held some sphere 
That paid for the toil and talent 

And love that are wasted here. 

— Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

**Wlien the golden sun is setting, 
And your mind from care is free. 
And of others you are thinking, 
Will you sometimes think of me ?'* 



Poems of Yesterday [13] 



A SONG OF LONG AGO 

A song of long ago. 

Sing it lightly — sing it low — 

Sing it softly — like the lisping of the lips we used to know 

When our baby-laughter spilled 

From the hearts forever filled 

With a music sweet as robin ever trilled. 

Let the fragrant summer breeze, 

And the leaves of locust trees, 

And the apple buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey 

bees, 
All palpitate with glee. 
Till the happy harmony 
Brings back each childish joy to you and me. 

Let the eyes of fancy turn 

Where the tumbled pippins burn 

Like embers in the orchard's lap of tousled grass and fern; 

And let the wayward wind, 

Still singing, plod behind 

The cider-press — the good old-fashioned kind! 

Blend in the song the moan 

Of the dove that grieves alone. 

And the wild whirr of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy 

drone ; 
And the low of cows that call 
Through the pasture bars when all 
The landscape faints away at evenfall. 

Then, far away and clear. 

Through the dusty atmosphere. 

Let the wailing of the Kildee be the only sound you hear. 

Oh, sweet and sad and low 

As the memory may know 

Is the glad, pathetic song of Long Ago! 

— James Whitcomb Rilet 



[14] Poems of Yesterday 



FORTY YEARS AGO 

I've wandered to the village, Tom, 

I've sat beneath the tree 
Upon the schoolhouse playground 

That sheltered you and me; 
But none were there to greet me, Tom, 

And few were left to know 
Who played with us upon the green, 

Just forty years ago. 

The grass was just as green, Tom 

Barefooted boys at play 
Were sporting, just as we did then. 

With spirits just as gay; 
But the master sleeps upon the hill 

Which, coated o'er with snow. 
Afforded us a sliding-place 

Some forty years ago. 



The old schoolhouse is altered some, 

The benches are replaced 
By new ones, very like the same 

Our jack-knives had defaced. 
But the same old bricks are in the wall 

And the bell swings to and fro, 
Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 

'Twas forty years ago. 



The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, 
Close by the spreading beech, 

Is very low; 'twas once so high 

That we could scarcely reach; 

And kneeling do^^^l to take a drink, 
Dear Tom, I started so. 

To think how very much I've changed 
Since forty years ago. 



Poems of Yesterday [15] 



Near by that spring, upon an elm, 

You know, I cut your name, 
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, 

And you did mine the same ; 
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 

'Twas dying sure, but slow. 
Just as she died whose name you cut 

There forty years ago. 



My lids have long been dry, Tom, 

But tears came in my eyes ; 
I thought of her I loved so well. 

Those early broken ties; 
I visited the old churchyard, 

And took some flowers to strew 
Upon the graves of those we loved 

Just forty years ago. 

Well, some are in the churchyard laid. 

Some sleep beneath the sea. 
But none are left of our old class, 

Excepting you and me; 
And when our time shall come, Tom, 

And we are called to go, 
I hope we'll meet with those we loved 

Some forty years ago. 

— Stephen Mabsell 



There's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told, 
Where they know not the sorrows of time; 

Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold. 
And life is a treasure sublime. — Clark 



When life was like a story, holding neither sob or sigh, 
In the golden olden glory of the days gone by. 

— James Whitcomb Riley 



[16] Poems of Yesterday 



OUR LITTLE BOY BLUE 

The little toy dog is covered with dust. 

But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket molds in his hands. 
Time was, when the little toy dog was new, 

And the soldier was passing fair, 
And that is the time when our Little Boy Blue 

Kissed them and put them there. 

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 

"And don't you make any noise!" 
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed. 

He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
And as he was dreaming, an angel song 

Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
O, the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true. 



Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue, they stand, 

Each in the same old place. 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face. 
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through 

In the dust of that little chair, 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue 

Since he kissed them, and put them there. 

—Eugene Field 



WHO NE'ER HAS SUFFERED 

Who ne'er has suffered, he has lived but half. 

Who never failed, he never strove or sought. 
Who never wept is stranger to a laugh. 

And he who never doubted never thought. 

-*ReV. J. B. GrOODE 



Poems of Yesterday [17] 



THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy autumn-fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under-world; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square: 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, — 
death in life, the days that are no more. 

— Lord Tennyson; ''The Princess. 



FROM THANATOPSIS 

So live that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

— Brtant 



[18] Poems of Yesterday 



OVER THE RIVER THEY BECKON 

Over the river they beckon to me, 

Loved ones who crossed to the other side; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels that met him there — 

The gate of the city we could not see • 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, the household pet; 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 

Darling Minnie! I see her yet! 
She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands. 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 
We watched it glide from the siWer sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
We know she is safe on the farther side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be; 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; 
And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts- 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day; 
We only know that their barks no more 

Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 



Poems of Yesterday [19] 

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing the river and hill, and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the waters cold 

And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale 

To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The angel of death shall carry me. 

— Nancy A. W. Peiest 

JOHN ANDERSON 

John Anderson, my jo John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonny brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo John, 

We clamb the hill thegither. 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither; 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

— Robert Bubns 

Hang a vine by de chimney side, 

An' one by de cabin do'; 
An' sing a song fu' de day dat died, 

De day of long ergo. 

— Paul Laurence Dunbab 



[20] Poems of Yesterday 



LITTLE BY LITTLE 

Little by little the time goes by — 

Short, if you sing through it, long, if you sigh. 

Little by little — an hour a day. 

Gone with the years that have vanished away. 

Little by little the race is run; 

Trouble and waiting and toil are done! 



Little by little the skies grow clear; 
Little by little the sun comes near; 
Little by little the days smile out, 
Gladder and brighter on pain and doubt; 
Little by little the seed we sow 
Into a beautiful yield will grow. 



Little by little the world grows strong, 
Fighting the battle of Right and Wrong; 
Little by little tlie Wrong gives way — 
Little by little the Right has sway. 
Little by little all longing souls 
Struggle up nearer the shining goals. 



Little by little the good in man 
Blossoms to beauty, for human ken; 
Little by little the angels see 
Prophecies better of good to be; 
Little by little the God of all 
Lifts the world nearer the pleading call. 



"There is a small r.nd simple flower 

That twines around the humblest cot, 
And in the sad and lonely hours 
It whispers low: 'Forget-me-not.'" 



Poems of Yesterday [21] 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 



O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play; 
well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 



And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But for the touch of a vanished hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 



Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, sea! 
But the tender grace of a day tliat is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

— Alfred Tennyson 



'Oh! cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girh 

and boys 
That but a little while ago, made, oh ! such pleasant noise ? 
Oh, trees and hills and brooks and lanes and meadows, do 

you know 
Wliere I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? 
You see, I'm old and weary, and I've traveled long and far ; 
I'm looking for my playmates and I wonder where they 

are." 

— Eugene Field 



[22] Poems of Yesterday 

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron liave fled. 
Where the blades of the gra^-e-grass quiver, 
Asleep in the ranks of the dead: — 
Under the sod and the dew 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the one, the Blue, 
Under the other, the Gray. 



These are the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory. 
In the dusk of eternity meet: — 
Under the sod and the dew 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 
Under the willow, the Gray. 



From the silence of sorrowful ours. 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers, 

Alike for the friend and the foe:- 
Under the sod and the dew 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 



So, with an equal splendor, 
The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch impartially tender. 
On the blossoms blooming for all: — 
Under the sod and the dew 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 



Poems of Yesterday [23] 



So, when the summer calleth, 

On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain: — 
Under the sod and the dew 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 



Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won: — 
Under the sod and the dew 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 



No more shall the war cry sever, 
Or the winding rivers be red; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead! 
Under the sod and the dew 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



"I'd lak a few ol' frien's tonight 

To come an' set wid me; 
An' let me feel dat ol' delight 

I ust to in day glee. 
But hyeah we is, my pipe an' me, 

Wid no one else erbout; 
We bofe as choked ez choked kin be, 
An bofe'U soon go out." 

— Paul Laurence Dunbab 



[24] Poems of Yesterday 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD 

Laugh, and the world laughs with you, 

Weep, and you weep alone, 
For the brave old earth must borrow its mirth- 

But has trouble enough of its own. 
Sing and the hills will answer, 

Sigh, it is lost on the air; 
The echoes rebound to a joyful sound 

And shrink from voicing care. 

Rejoice, and men will seek you, 

Grieve, and they turn and go; 
They want full measure of your pleasure, 

But they do not want your woe. 
Be glad, and your friends are many. 

Be sad, and you lose them all; 
There are none to decline your nectared wine, 

But alone you must drink life's gall. 

Feast, and your halls are crowded, 

Fast, and the world goes by. 
Forget, and forgive — it helps you to live, 

But no man can help you to die; 
There's room in the halls of pleasure 

For a long and lordly train. 
But, one by one, we must all march on 

Through the narrow aisle of pain. 

— Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

"Nights by the kitchen stove. 
Shelling white and red 
Corn in a skillet, and 
Sleepin' four abed! 

"Ah! the jolly winters 
Of the long-ago! 
We were not so old as now — 
Oh! No! No!" 

— James Whitcomb Riley 



Poems of Yesterday [25] 



THE PATTER OF THE RAIN 

When the humid shadows hover 

Over all the starry spheres. 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in raining tears, 
What a joy to press the pillow 

Of a cottage chamber bed, 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead. 

Every patter on the shingles 

Has an echo of the heart. 
Many long-forgotten fancies 

Into being quickly start, 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their bright hues into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

Now in memory comes my mother. 

As she used long years agone, 
To regard the darling dreamers, 

Ere she left them to the dawn. 
Oh! I see her bending o'er me 

As I list to the refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

— CoATES Kinney 



"I scattered seed on a barren plain 

And watered the furrows with tears; 
My heart was heavy with grief and pain. 

And my soul distraught with fears. 
But after many weary days 

Of lowering clouds and rain, 
I gathered from seed that was sown in tears 
A harvest of golden grain." 

— Thomas Habdy. 



[26] Poems of Yesterday 

THE MONEYLESS MAN 

Is there no secret place on the face of the earth, 
Where charity dwelleth, where virtue hath birth? 
Where bosoms in mercy and kindness shall heave, 
And the poor and the wretched shall "ask and receive ?" 
Is there no place on earth where a knock from the poor 
Will bring a kind angel to open the door? 
Ah! search the wide world wherever you can, 
There is no open door for a moneyless man! 

Go, look in your hall, where the chandelier's light 
Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night, 
Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy fold. 
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimming of gold. 
And the mirrors of silver take up and renew, 
In long lighted vistas, the wildering view — 
Go there in your patches, and find if you can, 
A welcoming smile for the moneyless man! 



Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire. 
Which gives back to the sun his same look of red fire, 
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, 
And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin; 
Go down the long aisle — see the rich and the great, 
In the pomp and pride of their worldly estate — 
Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can. 
Who opens a pew to a moneyless man. 



Go, look on yon judge in the dark flowing gown, 
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down. 
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, 
And punishes right where he justifies wrong; 
W^here jurors their lips on the Bible have laid, 
To render a verdict they've already made; 
Go, there in the court-room, and find if you can, 
Any law for the cause of a moneyless man! 



Poems of Yesterday [27] 

Go, look in the banks where mammon has told 
His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold ; 
Where safe from the hand of the starving and poor, 
Lays pile upon pile of the glittering ore; 
Walk up to the counter — and there you may stay 
Till your limbs grow old and your hair turns gray, 
And you'll find at the banks no one of the clan 
With money to loan to a moneyless man! 

Then go to your hovel; no raven has fed 

The wife who has suffered too long for her bread; 

Kneel down on the pallet and kiss the death frost 

From the lips of the angel your poverty lost; 

Then turn in your agony upward to God, 

And bless while it smites you, the chastening rod; 

And you'll find at the end of your little life's span, 

There's a welcome above for a moneyless man! 

— Henry T. Stanton 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 

I shot an arrow into the air. 
It fell to earth, I knew not where: 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 

— Henby W. Longfellow 



[28] Poems of Yesterday 



HIS CHRISTMAS SLED 

I watch him with his Christmas sled; 

He hitches on behind 
A passing sleigh, with glad hooray, 

And whistles down the wind ; 
He hears the horses champ their bits, 

And bells that jingle- jingle — 
You Woolly Cap! you Scarlet Mitta! 

You miniature "Kriss Kringle!" 



I almost catch your secret joy — 

Your chucklings of delight, 
The while you whizz where glory is 

Eternally in sight! 
With you I catch my breath, as swift 

Your jaunty sled goes gliding 
O'er glassy track and shallow drift, 

As I behind were riding! 



He winks at twinklings of the frost. 

And on his airy race, 
Its tingles beat to redder heat 

The rapture of his face: — 
The colder, keener is the air, 

The less he cares a feather. 
But, there! he's gone! and I gaze on 

The wintriest of weather! 



Ah, boy! still speeding o'er the track 

Where none returns again. 
To sigh for you, or cry for you, 

Or die for you were vain. — 
And so, speed on! the while I pray 

All nipping frosts forsake you — 
Ride still ahead of grief, but may 

All glad things overtake you! 

— James Whitcomb Riley 



Poems of Yesterday [29] 



OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT 

Oft in the stilly night, 
Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, 

Fond memory brings the light 
Of other days around me; 
The smiles, the tears 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken; 
The eyes that shone 
Now dimmed and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken: 

Thus in the stilly night, 
Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 

Sad memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 
The friends so linked together 

I've seen around me fall 
Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet hall deserted. 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed! 

Thus in the stilly night, 
Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 

Sad memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

— Thomas Moore 



*0 for one hour of youthful joy! 

Give back my twentieth spring! 
I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, 

Than reign a gray-beard king." 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes 



[30] 



Poeau of Tesierday 



ALWAYS 



^' 



ATS^ 






An' msts or iinifiwai ftf ; 
Az ^. wfaK ke 3tus too kaid, 

Hr _ -c ;--e m kJB eye 

I tell y'u. bar ir 5 fmmaj 



iaTTH* of 






Poems of Yesterday [31] 

TEE OLD OaE:E\- EUCKET 



1 . - 

1 



Tint iw umm e d YtamA I hafl as > 

For often at Boon, whem. letamed from tlie field, 
I found it tlie aomve of an eqidsite pknsne. 

The purest and sweetest tbat natere can jidd. 
How aident I seined it iritli hands t^i 

How quick to tlie iriiite peiMed bottm it Ml! 
Then soon with tiv enAlem of trntt o va flow ii g. 

And drippin g ^lith eooiness, it rose from the wcIL 
The old oaka hneket, tie inM-hoad hndtet. 

The -:-;-:: vered tmcket arose front the wefl. 



How swceC £ni^ the green wo&sf briB to receive it, 

As poised on the emb it inrlinBd to mf Iqis! 
Not a full Unshii^ goUet eonld tiaipt mt to leai« it, 

TlMMD^ filled with tiw neetar that 
And now, fmr lemowd frtan tte lof«d 

The tear of regret win intrasivriy swcO, 
As fancy reverts to mj father's plantatian. 

And sig^ for the hncfat whieii hai«s m the wcO, 
The old oakna bneket, tte iitM-bonnd bnefat. 

The nM u u c wiii e d hnetat whiA haMgs in the w^SL 



[32] Poems of Yesterday 



TWO LITTLE CHILDREN AND A PEACH 

A little peach in the orchard grew, 

A little peach of emerald hue; 

Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, 

It grew. 
One day, walking the orchard through, 
That little peach dawned on the view 
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue — 

Those two. 
Up at the peach a club they threw: 
Down from the limb on which it grew 
Fell the little peach of emerald hue — 

Too true. 
John took a bite, and Sue took a chew, 
And then the trouble began to brew, — 
Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue, — 

Paregoric too. 
Under the turf where the daisies grew. 
They planted John and his sister Sue; 
And their little souls to the angels flew — 

Boo-hoo ! 
But what of the peach of emerald hue, 
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? 
Ah, well! its mission on earth is through — 

Adieu ! 

— Eugene Field 

FAMILY TROUBLES 

Last week our baby had a spazzum, 

And I've had scarlet rash, 
And we've got hives, too — pa he has 'em, 

And our dog's name is Dash, 
And he has forty million fleas 

That keep him busy scratchin'! 
Ma says we haven't any cash. 

Nor credit, nor idees, 

'Cause they're things that ain't catchin*. 
— S. E. KiSER 



Poems of Yesterday [33] 



THE BOY ON THE BACK-YARD FENCE 

The boy stood on the back-yard fence, whence all but he had 

fled; 
The flames that lit his father's barn shone just above the 

shed. 
One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat. 
With piteous accents loud he cried, "I never thought of 

that!" 
A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he'd tied ; 
The dog in anguish sought the barn, and 'mid its ruins died. 

The sparks flew wide, and red and hot, they lit upon that 

brat; 
They fired the crackers in his hand, and e'en those in his 

hat. 
Then came a burst of rattling sound — the boy! Where was 

he gone ? 
Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat 

and bone: 
And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and 

hooks, and yarn — 
The relics of that dreadful boy that burnt his father's barn. 

FROM BABYHOOD TO BOYHOOD 

Where snow had drifted o'er the land 
I saw a sweet young mother stand; 
A babe was lying on her breast. 

Its little form 
Against herself she closely pressed, 
To keep it warm. 

In later years I passed once more, 

And saw her at her cottage door: 

A boy was lying on her knee, 

Her look was grim, 
And, suff'ering Joshua! how she 
Was warming him! 

— S. E. KiSEB 



[34] Poems of Yesterday 

"BETSY AND I ARE OUT" 
Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout, 
For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are 

out, — 
We who have worked together so long as man and wife, 
Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat'ral life. 

"What is the matter ?" says you. I swan ! it's hard to tell ! 
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well; 
I have no other woman — she has no other man; 
Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. 

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me ; 
And we've agreed together, that we can never agree; 
Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime, 
We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had for a start; 
Although we ne'er suspected, 'twould take us two apart; 
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone. 
And Betsj^, like all good women, had a temper of her own. 

The first thing I remember, whereon we disagreed. 

Was somethin' concerning heaven, — a difference in our 

creed ; 
We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed the thing at 

tea — 
And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we couldn't 

agree. 

And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; 
She liad kicked the bucket, for certain — the question was 

only — How ? 
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had; 
And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad. 

And the next that I rememljer, it started in a joke; 
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. 
And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl ; 
And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul. 

And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; 
Always somethin' to arg'e and something sharp to say, — 
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o' dozen 

strong. 
And lent their kindliest sarvice to help the thing along. 



Poems of Yesterday [35] 



And there have been days together — and many a weary 

week — 
When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud 

to speak; 
And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the 

summer and fall, 
If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all. 

And so I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with 

me; 
And we have agreed together that we can never agree; 
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be 

mine; 
And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign. 

Write on that paper, lawyer — the very first paragraph — 
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half; 
For she has helped to earn it, through many a weary day, 
An' it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay. 

So draw up the paper, la\vyer ; and I'll go home tonight, 
And read the agreement to her and see if it's all right; 
And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a tradin' man I know — 
And kiss the child that was left us, and out in the world 
I'll go. 

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't 

occur ; 
That when I'm dead at last she will bring me back to her, 
And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, 
When she and I were happy, before we quarreled so. 

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me; 
And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll then agree; 
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer 
If we loved each other the better because we've quarreled 
here. — Will Carleton 



[36] Poems of Yesterday 



THEY TWO 

They are left alone in the dear old home. 

After so many years, 
When the house was full of frolic and fun. 

Of childish laughter and tears. 
They are left alone, they two — once more 

Beginning life over again, 
Just as they did in the days of yore. 

Before they were nine or ten. 
And the table is set for two these days; 

The children went one by one 
Away from home on their separate ways 

When the childhood days were done. 
How healthily hungry they used to be! 

What romping they used to do! 
And mother — for weeping — can hardly see 

To set the table for two. 
They used to gather around the fire 

While someone would read aloud, 
But whether at study or work or play 

'Twas a loving and merry crowd. 
And now they are two that gather there 

At evening to read or sew. 
And it seems almost too much to bear 

When they think of the long ago. 
Ah, well — ah, well, 'tis the way of the world; 

Children stay but a little while 
And then into other scenes are whirled. 

Where other homes beguile; 
But it matters not how far they roam 

Their hearts are fond and true, 
And there's never a home like the dear old home 

Where the table is set for two. 



"From the weather-worn house on the brow of the hill 
We are dwelling afar, in our manhood, today; 
But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still. 
As they looked long ago ere we wandered away." 



Poems of Yesterday [37] 

THE RIVER TIME 

Oh! a wonderful stream is the River Time, 

As it runs through the reahn of tears, 
With faultle.ss rhythm, a musical rhyme, 
And a hroader sweep and surge sublime. 

As it blends with the ocean of years. 

How the Winters are drifting like flakes of snow. 

And the Summers, like birds between, 
And the years in the sheaf — how they come and go. 
On the river's breast, with its ebb and its flow, 

As it glides in the shadow and sheen. 

There's a magical isle up the River Time, 

Where the softest of airs are playing; 
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime. 

And the Junes with the roses are straying. 

And the name of this isle is the Long Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there; 
There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow; 
There are heaps of dust — oh, we loved them so! 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings. 

There are parts of an infant's prayer; 
There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; 
There are broken vows, and pieces of rings, 

And the garments our loved ones used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air; 
And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar. 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the river was fair. 
Oh, remembered for aye be that blessed isle. 

All the day of our life till night; 
And when evening glows with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing in slumbers awhile, 

May that Greenwood of souls be in sight! 

— Benjamin Franklin Tatlob 



[38] Poems of Yesterday 



THAT NIGHT 

You and I, and that night, with its perfume and glory! — 

The scent of the locusts — the light of the moon; 
And the violin weaving the waltzers a story, 
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the tune. 
Till their shadows uncertain, 
Reeled round on the curtain, 
While under the trellis we drank in the June. 



Soaked through with the midnight, the cedars were sleeping. 

Their shadowy tresses outlined in the bright 
Crystal, moon-smitten mists, where the fountain's heart 
leaping 
Forever, forever burst, full with delight; 
And its lisp on my spirit 
Fell faint as that near it 
Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the night. 



your glove was an odorous sachet of blisses! 

The breath of your fan was a breeze from Cathay! 
And the rose at your throat was a nest of spilled kisses! — • 
And the music! — in fancy I hear it today, 
As I sit here, confessing 
Our secret, and blessing 
My rival who found us, and waltzed you away. 

— James Whitcomb Riley 



The loves that make memory happy and home beautiful 
are those which form the sunlight of our earliest conscious- 
ness, beaming gratefully along the path of maturity, and 
their radiance lingering till the shadow of death darkens 
them all together. 



Poems of Yesterday [39] 



THE OLD ARM CHAIR 

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving the old arm chair? 

I've treasured it long as a holy prize, 

I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs; 

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start, 

Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there. 

And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 



In childhood's home, I lingered near 

The hallow'd seat with list'ning ear,- 

And gentle words would mother give, 

To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer 

As I knelt beside that old arm chair. 



I sat and watched her many a day, 

When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray. 

And I almost worship'd her when she smiled, 

And turn'd from her bible to bless her child. 

Years roU'd on, but the last one sped — 

My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled; 

I learned how much the heart can bear 

W^hen I saw her die in the old arm chair. 



'Tis past; 'tis past; but I gaze on it now 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow; 
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died. 
And mem'ry flows with lav^a tide. 
Say it is folly and deem me weak. 
While the scalding drops start down my cheek; 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm chair. 

— EuzA Cook 



[40] Poems of Yesterday 



PICTURES OF MEMORY 

Among the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all; 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden. 

Dark with the mistletoe; 
Not for the violets golden 
That sprinkle the vale below; 
Not for the milk-Avhite lilies 

That lead from the fragrant hedge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their golden edge; 
Not for the vines on the upland 

Where the bright red berries rest, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip. 

It seemeth to me the best. 



I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep- 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep; 
Light as the down of the thistle. 

Free as the winds that blow. 
We roved there the beautiful summers 

The summers of long ago; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 



Sweetly his pale arms folded 
My neck in a meek embrace. 

As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face; 

And when the arrows of sunset 
Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 



Poems of Yesterday [41] 



He fell, in his saint-like beauty. 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall. 
The one of tlie dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 

— Alice Cart 



GOOD-BYE ER HOWDY-DO 

Say good-bye er howdy-do — 
What's the odds betwixt the two? 
Comin' — goin' — every day 
Best friends first to go away — 
Grasp of hands you druther hold 
Than their weight in solid gold, 
Slips their grip while greetin' you — 
Say good-bye er howdy-do? 



Howdy-do, and then, good-bye — 
Mixes jest like laugh and cry; 
Deaths and births, and worst and best 
Tangled their contrariest; 
Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell 
Skeerin' up some funeral knell. — 
Here's my song, and there's your sigh: 
Howdy'do, and then, good-bye! 



Say good-bye er howdy-do — 
Jest the same to me and you; 
'Taint worth while to make no fusa, 
'Cause the job's put up on us! 
Some one's runnin' this concern 
That's got nothin' else to learn — 
If He's willin', we'll pull through, 
Say good-bye er howdy-do! 

— James Whitcomb Riley 



[42] Poems of Yesterday 



OLD KITCHEN REVERIES 

Far back in my musings my thoughts have been east 

To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed: 

I loved all of its rooms to the pantry and hall; 

But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. 

Its chairs and its table none brighter could be. 

For all its surroundings were sacred to me; 

To the nail in the ceiling, the latch on the door, 

And I love every crack on the old kitchen floor. 



I remember the fire-place with mouth high and wide, 

The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side, 

Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came puddings and pies 

That fairly bewildered and dazzled my eyes. 

And then, too, St. Nicholas, slyly and still, 

Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill; 

But the dearest of memories I've laid up in store. 

Is the mother that trod on the old kitchen floor. 



Day in and day out, from morning till night, 

Her footsteps were busy, her heart always light. 

For it seemed to me then that she knew not a care, 

Tlie smile was so gentle her face used to wear. 

I remember with pleasure what joy filled our eyes 

When she told us the stories that children so prize; 

They were new every night, though we'd heard them before 

From her lips, at the wheel, on the old kitchen floor. 



I remember the window, where mornings I'd run 

As soon as the daybreak, to watch for the sun; 

And I thought, when my head scarcely reached to the sill, 

That it slept through the night in the trees on the hill ; 

And the small tract of ground that my eyes there could view 

Was all the world that my infancy knew; 

Indeed, I cared not to know of it more, 

For a world of itself was that old kitchen floor. 



Poems of Yesterday [43] 



Tonight those old visions come back at their will, 
But the wheel and its music forever are still; 
The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, 
And the fingers that turned it lie mold'ring in clay; 
The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as 'twas then. 
And the voices of children ring out there again; 
The sun through the window looks in as of yore. 
But it sees strange feet on the old kitchen floor. 



I ask not for honor, but this I would crave, 

That when the lips speaking are closed in the grave, 

My children would gather theirs round by their side, 

And tell of the mother who long ago died; 

'Twould be more enduring, far dearer to me, 

Than inscription on granite or marble could be. 

To have them tell often, as I did of yore, 

Of the mother who trod on the old kitchen floor. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Deal gently with her. Time: these many years 

Of life have brought more smiles with them than tears. 

Lay not thy hand too harshly on her now, 

But trace decline so slowly on her brow 

That (like a sunset of the Northern clime, 

Where twilight lingers in the summer-time. 

And fades at last into the silent night. 

Ere one may note the passing of the light) 

So may she pass — since 'tis our common lot — 

As one who, resting, sleeps and knows it not. 

— John Allen Wyeth 



[44] Poems of Yesterday 



DOUGHNUTS LIKE MY MOTHER USED TO MAKE 

I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys, 

'N' feelin' kind o' blue, 
I thought I'd look in at ''The Ranch," 

Ter find out what was new; 
When I seen this sign a-hangin' 

On a shanty by the lake: j 

"Here's where yer gets yer doughnuts 1 

Like yer mother used ter make." 



I've seen a grizzly show his teeth; 

I've seen Kentucky Pete 
Draw out his shooter 'n' advise 

A "Tenderfoot" ter treat; 
But nuthin' ever tuk me down 

'N' made my benders shake 
Like that sign about the doughnuts 

That mv mother used ter make. 



A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, 

'N' standin' thar instead, 
I seen an old white farm-house, 

With its doors all painted red. 
A whiff came through the open door — 

Wuz I sleepin' or awake ? 
The smell was that of doughnuts 

Like mv mother used ter make. 



The bees was hummin' round the porch 

Whar honeysuckles grew, 
A yellow dish of apple-sass 

Was settin' thar in view; 
'N' on the table, by the stove, 

An old-time "Johnny-cake," \ 

'N' a platter full of doughnuts j 

Like mv mother used ter make. : 



Poems of Yesterday [45] 



A patient form I seemed ter see, 

In tidy dress of black; 
I almost thought I heard the words, 

"When will my boy come back?" 
'N' then — the old sign creaked; 

But now it was the boss who spake; 
"Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts 

Like yer mother used ter make." 



Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 

'N' ez I've "struck pay gravel," 
I ruther think I'll pack my kit, 

Vamose the ranch, 'n' travel. 
I'll make the old folks jubilant, 

'N', if I don't mistake, 
I'll try some o' them doughnuts 

Like my mother used ter make. 

— Charles Follen Adams 

IN THE SPOT LIGHT 

This is a confidence: Long, long ago 

I sat and worshipped her from the front row, 

Thought her entrancing. 

And vowed that her dancing 
Rivaled the music in rhythmical flow. 

Ah, it is different when one is old — 

Locks may grow scanty and hearts may grow cold, 

But she is dancing 

And airily glancing 
Over the footlights — still young, I am told! 

— W. D. Nesbit 

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! 
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled: 
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, 
But the scent of the roses clings 'round it still. 

— ^MOOBE 



[46] Poems of Yesterday 

"Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray; 
The stars of its winters, the deAvs of its May." 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes 

"WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN?" 

When shall we three meet again? 
When shall we three meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign, 
Ere we three shall meet again. 

Though in distant lands we sigh, 
Parched beneath a hostile sky, 
Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls; 
Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 



When the dreams of life are fled, 
When its wasted lamps are dead. 
When, in cold oblivion's shade. 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid, 
Where immortal spirits reign, 
There shall we three meet again. 

— Anonymous 

" GOOD-BYE " 

There is a word, of grief the sounding token; 

There is a word bejeweled with bright tears. 
The saddest word fond lips have ever spoken; 

A little word that breaks the chain of years; 
Its utterance must ever bring emotion, 

The memories it crystals cannot die, 
*Tis known in every land, on every ocean — 
'Tis called' "Good-bye." 



JDL 31 W13 




LlDKHKl wr x^vriivF.'. 



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